


waking up

by kiden



Series: still care about mixtapes [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Band on the Run, M/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-27 23:50:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20416367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiden/pseuds/kiden
Summary: With his eyes shut, the person lying next to him could be anyone. The body half on top of his, their back to his chest, the solid, comforting weight of another human being pressed so close. He doesn’t get too many opportunities to pretend.





	waking up

It’s morning. Steve’s eyes are still closed, and the sun is shining through the dirty window and the smoke-stained curtains and across his face and shoulders. He knows it’s around 7 am. And it’s warm enough outside to cancel out whatever good the small air conditioner built into the wall was doing. If he opens his eyes he’ll have to face the truth, but he hates doing that these days, so he keeps them closed. 

With his eyes shut, the person lying next to him could be anyone. The body half on top of his, their back to his chest, the solid, comforting weight of another human being pressed so close. He doesn’t get too many opportunities to pretend. So he keeps his eyes closed for as long as he can. 

Allows himself to dream a little longer, even though he’s awake. 

It only lasts until Natasha grunts as she rolls around, trying to untangle herself from the sheets. She gets him hard in the gut with an elbow and apologizes, her voice hoarse from disuse and the liquor her and Sam had thrown back the previous night. All of this shatters the illusion. It’s okay, Steve thinks, he’s better off without it. 

She smells like vodka and citrus and sweat. Steve can take a deep breath and smell scotch and musk oil and something like worn leather. 

If anyone knows, Natasha does. Steve prays she doesn’t. Or, at the very least, that she’ll never ask. She’d never believe the lie even if he could get it out. 

“Get off me,” she whines, and Steve opens his eyes just in time to see her regret speaking with a wince. “It’s too hot.” 

“You’re on my side of the bed,” he says. Steve pushes Nat’s shoulder with a gentle hand, until she rolls onto her stomach. 

“Don’t,” she groans. “I’m going to hurl.” 

“Don’t say  _ vomit _ ,” Sam complains, lying on the broken-down little couch in the corner of the motel room. “Don’t say it.” 

“No one said ‘vomit’,” Steve says. They both tell him to shut up. 

Under his pillow is the flip-phone. That’s not something he’s been able to hide from Nat, but she hasn’t commented on it yet. Steve grabs it as he gets out of bed, unplugging it from the charger and slipping it into the pocket of his sweats. Tony won’t call today. He didn’t call yesterday, or the day before that, or the weeks and months it’s been since Steve sent him it’s twin. It’s unlikely he’ll ever call, Steve knows that, but he keeps it on him anyway. Just in case.

Maybe the smell isn’t worn leather, but that’s what it is in his memory. A hundred times just after a mission, Tony flying the Quinjet or walking around the tower, the undersuit half-off with the arms tied around his waist. He could never really get a handle on what that material smelled like after a few hours in the suit. Not underneath all that body spray Tony was fond of. 

He throws on a hoodie and grabs his wallet, promises his tired, hungover team, “Breakfast,” and then he slips out of the room. Closes and locks the door behind him. There will be other chances to pretend - Nat or Sam will roll too close to him in their sleep, the sun will rise and Steve won’t open his eyes and he’ll be somewhere else. Dreaming and grasping at the smoke of it as it dissipates into a new day.

Maybe today Tony will call. Steve’s faith has room for miracles. 


End file.
